Alien

Blackest black-purple

my voice returns to me

dragging shackles.

What vertebrate ghost did this?

A legacy of ice floes through

my life

High tea in hell.

They look so refined.

I close the broken window.

The wind turns back.

After the fire

ash sifts through the air

looking for something left

to land on

finds only my hollow hands.

My voice climbs over my tongue as

a weary and alien being.

My artistically rendered

silence leaks from my nailbeds.

The sky is black,

black purple,

and I am invaded.

Benzos

Bending benzos,

bows over my fraught mind.

Madame Rainbow,

Messieurs Blood and Cloud.

Somewhere in the city

Freud soaks my jaws

in alkaline water.

My tongue has always been

a working girl.

In my perspiring frontal lobe,

a waltz coated in epoxy.

Madame,

You have wrapped me like a gift

regifted.

Messieurs, I must dash.

My fun is running away

too fast!

Loaned and Leased

In some paisley antithesis

to paradise

a swan defaults on her loan.

When water is rented

and love is leased,

how can we have enough

spoons to gnaw our way through

magnified day?

In the kitchen,

patience burns tea

while virtue gets drunk on

the last of my Italian wine.

The swan will not leave the bank.

Her babies are buried there.

Below an investing, rippled surface,

a fish surveys the

inescapable purveyors of loss.

Some Idea About Birds

Supermarket cool,

I saunter down the avenue,

acknowledging height with a nod.

Perched on a chain link fence,

bleeding,

some idea about birds.

I wept once,

and the bluejays turned a

mysterious shade of wisteria.

Spectral women love the glitz

more than me,

which is to say they don’t love

me at all,

which is to say I love glitz.

In my own plastic Paris,

The shops sell angelic wings

sewn with glistening webbing.

Yesterday’s neighbor

smiles benevolently on me,

her eyesight restored,

her loneliness a cloud on

her daughter’s rooftop in

the city of breath.

I am a trespasser here,

A bird in the stratosphere.

Dark Blue World

Dark blue world with

a turquoise brooch,

lend me cerulean serenity,

cobalt coal.

In a grunge sweat I awake

to my graying life,

see my watery windows blink,

your image like an oil painting,

then a satisfied sea,

next a poison frog.

Each blink my view of you morphs,

though your honorable navy

shades swear you have never changed.

You glide beyond the reach

of my clock,

ticking away as it tends

to do while the universe is unreachable.

In the vastness of your blue,

in your sapphire essence,

chewy caramel change is king.

Netherworld Named Living

In the great blue fire

covering the city of ghosts

like a well-loved receiving blanket

a wisp of smoke is birthed

from a frigid heat.

What is her name,

this queen of the reaping?

She is a gossamer phantom

with sky ambitions.

While flames whisper through windows,

she skitters in and out of the

bluejay’s lungs,

recycled.

On the fiery airstrip,

the dying plane resembles a tongue.

Her voice is a soft sigh,

a sort of escapism from exhaustion.

The fire climbs through the

ghostly metropolis like a

twisted ivy,

unconscious of her seed rising

to drift elsewhere,

air for a tree in some

distant netherworld

named Living.

9,19,29

Today I am 9, 19, 29.

I look out my window to the used days,

see saw toothed predators

hunting my small, oblivious

head in the long grass.

I am suffocated by the

fire and brimstone perfume

of my own being

as I tiptoe back and

forth between heaven and

hell each day.

I long to let my hair

cascade down my back,

to strip naked in the

unblinking square

and ask the strange things

with six rows of teeth

to take my shame from me

like an unwanted cloak.

Yesterday at dinner,

I was a vulture vivisecting

a yellow canvas,

my talons raw as milk.